


what to do with a trojan horse

by cantbelieveimdoingthis (paox)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Child Abuse, Espionage, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Oneshot, Slight Canon Divergence, and his reaction is uhh In Character to say the least, essentially: mad-eye finds out about the blacks' abuse, inadequate responses to realising a kid is being physically abused at home: the novella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:22:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29996586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paox/pseuds/cantbelieveimdoingthis
Summary: Perched on his doorstep, Sirius Black is bedraggled and pathetic. He looks all his fifteen years, rainwater dripping off his sharp nose, dark hair sticking to his forehead, a thick, white curse scar sticking out of the neckline of his muggle sweater.“Took ages for me to remember the right apartment,” Black mutters indistinctly. “Hey, Moody.”“That’s Auror Moody to you,” Alastor says, without much heat to it. “What are you waiting for, boy? Come in, there’s no use in talking on doorsteps-”Black shuffles inside. Under the flickering overhead light, he’s sallow and translucent, like you could walk right through him if you wanted to..(or: a war is coming, and Alastor Moody knows enough about war that when he finds a spy in young Sirius Black, he makes a series of difficult decisions.)
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Sirius Black & Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Sirius Black & James Potter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	what to do with a trojan horse

**Author's Note:**

> this idea came to me last night and i just Wrote It so it's not edited or anything but i think it's pretty good 
> 
> usual drill: jkr can literally gargle both my huge trans balls. dont read this if you support her or anything she does.

Alastor Moody is assigned to Hogwarts in 1970. He’s new to the Order and new to this particular station, since the Ministry didn’t see fit to start an Auror guard platoon at Hogwarts until the war started proper, but he’s certainly not a stranger to war. Life itself is a war, he’s felt for a long time -- a constant struggle against dark forces that threaten you every moment of every day you’re alive until they get to you, or you off yourself, or you fade out in your bed and nobody remembers you. 

There’s no time for such morbidity on the job, of course. Not with a new Dark Lord on the rise and blood supremacy becoming quite the high-society fashion statement. 

Alastor isn’t even a full day into work at his new station, in fact, when the first of a number of Instances occurs. 

Long after the new first-years have been ushered inside by a pale McGonagall, looking rather more unhappy than she did in the last Order meeting and shooting Alastor a hard look as she welcomes them into the castle, there’s a sharp crack just beyond the wards into Hogsmeade. The Auror on shift with Moody, young Auror Gander, straightens up and breaks into a jog in the direction of the sound. 

“Wait here,” Alastor commands him, before he’s even halfway across the bridge back to the town. 

In the orange glow of light from the bank, Gander turns back to him, raising an eyebrow. “Sir?” 

“I’ll take care of it,” Alastor grounds out, clanking across the bridge with deliberately heavy footfalls. Now isn’t the time to run. Now isn’t the time to creep, either. That will hardly improve their image. 

Alastor makes it across the bridge and onto Hogsmeade Lane. He stands in the darkness for a few moments, trying to triangulate the source of the sound. Something shifts in the shadows down the high street, and Alastor zeroes in. 

There are two figures hovering in the shadow of a shopfront. Everything’s closed by now, the night drawing in, so they’re well concealed. It’s a man and a boy, by the looks of them, in long robes. That’s about all Alastor can see. 

He starts towards them, crunching through the dry leaves, coat billowing back in the breeze. “Can I help you?” he raises his voice to call. 

The boy looks up. He’s got a very sharp face, narrow and dark, and black hair that curls around his ears. Striking and… something odd in his face.

The man has a tight grip on his shirt. Seeing Alastor approach, he lets go. “My son is a first year, here for his first day,” he says shortly. “We apologise for the delay. We’ve had to apparate in.” 

Stiff, aristocratic, southern English. Upper class. Perfectly manicured vowels, sharp consonants. It makes Alastor’s hackles rise. 

“His name?” 

“Sirius,” the young boy raises his voice to say, finding his footing on the cobblestone. 

It clicks. “You’ll be a Black, then, with a name like that.” 

Young Sirius Black nods shortly. “Yes,” he says.

Alastor pulls his copy of the student registry from his robes, slipping his wand into his sleeve as he does. Just in case. You never know when to let your guard down with families like these. But sure enough, Sirius Black’s name is near the top of the list of firsties. He’s probably missed his turn at the sorting by now. 

“Yep, we’ve got you on here.” Alastor drags the registry down to peer at Sirius Black. No glamour, as far as he can tell. As for the possibility of something like polyjuice, he’ll have to wait and see. Wait and watch. 

Sirius stares right back at him, something very strange in his face. 

“Are you going to escort him or not?” Orion Black, he must be, cuts in. 

Alastor draws himself up to his full height. “I will conduct my security on my own time, Black.” 

Orion scans him up and down. Alastor scans him right back. Says with his posture,  _ you can’t push me around. I was built to hunt people like you. Try it, I dare you, I’d kill you before you could get your wand out of your pants.  _

Between them, Sirius Black shuffles. He’s tall for his age. Under the dim light, his aristocratic features make him look slightly deathly. 

“I’m gonna miss the sorting,” he says plaintively. 

Alastor lets Orion break the eye contact first. “Come with me, boy. Unless you’d like to say goodbye to your father.” 

He means for it to be sarcastic, but Orion Black grabs his son by the shoulders and spins him around to face him. “Behave. Don’t disappoint us.”

“Yes, sir,” Sirius says. 

Orion’s long fingers dig into his shoulders hard for a split second, gouging through the dark robes, so short Alastor might have missed it. It’s long enough. Alastor reaches out and tugs his son away. 

“Now that the niceties are over with,” Alastor says. “We need you in the castle, Black.” 

Orion’s face twists. Then, he nods. Without another word, he twists on his shiny black heel and disapparates with a sharp crack that echoes through the empty town.

The tension bleeds out of Sirius Black’s sharp frame and he sags a little; then, he seems to remember that Alastair is there, straightening again like a gun has gone off. 

“Are we going?” he asks Alastor uncertainly. 

Alastor nods, letting go of the boy. “Follow me.”

They trek back across the bridge together, the Black boy jogging a little to keep up. The ethereal golden light of the castle shines down over them, streaming from the windows. 

“It’s bigger in person,” Black observes, something awestruck in it. 

“Be glad you’re not one of the soldiers guarding it,” Alastor grunts.

Black shoots him a sharp glance. After a moment, he ventures, “Against Voldemort.”

_ Brave boy. Or just foolish.  _ “Against Voldemort,” Alastor agrees. 

“You’re an auror.”

“Yes, boy. Hurry up.”

“Right.” Black picks up his lagging pace. “Do you think he’s going to attack the castle?” 

Alastor is caught off-guard, but only for a moment. He’s almost never off-guard for any reason, so he takes note of the feeling, stows it away like a hoarding dragon. 

“Always worth being vigilant,” Alastor says simply. “Come on.”

He pushes the boy through the front doors and into the Great Hall. Students sitting at the tables stare at Alastor ushers the young Black into line, at the very back of the dwindling queue for the Sorting. Hopefully they’ll just tag him on the end. 

Black turns to him as he leaves, as if about to say  _ thank you. _ Then, he seems to bite his tongue and turns away, back to the front, his spine regaining its rigid tension. 

As Alastor stalks back out of the hall, glaring determinedly past the staring students, he chances one last look over his shoulder. Black is staring off towards the Slytherin table with a look on his face like Alastor has never seen before, a look he'll never forget. Like a man walking the plank off the side of the ship and completely unafraid of the sharks. 

* * *

Sirius Black is sorted into Gryffindor, Alastor hears from one of the staff. He's already made friends, too, evidently quite the charmer, and Alastor wonders who's blood this'll end in: which Black will bleed for this. 

The boy seems happy, though. Alastor sees him sometimes while out on patrol, running around with the other Gryffindor firsties. He's got three friends -- a lanky, bespectacled pureblood; a pale, sickly looking boy; and a fourth, short and stout, who wanders along behind the others, basking in the glow of their company. Sirius Black looks happy enough, Alastor supposes. He holds himself like a china doll, like he might shatter if he moves too forcefully, but he's quick. The darkness never quite leaves his face. 

Alastor resolves himself to keep an eye on the boy, if for nothing else than for his own peace of mind, because if he knows one thing from his years on the force, it's that you can't trust the Noble and Ancients. They'll lure you in and swallow you whole. 

The boy is young, but he's smart. Perhaps too smart. Alastor will watch him closely. 

* * *

The year passes. The Order works in the shadows, running on stolen time, chasing ghosts up the northern European coastline. They're about five steps behind Riddle at all times, who is already on the move, recruiting from across the Nordic region, where blood supremacy still holds strong over many wizarding communities. 

"I worry we might never catch up," one of Moody's Order colleagues tells him grimly one evening, over a drink, after one of their monthly gatherings. 

A few weeks later, they find him chopped to bits in a fjord in Iceland. 

The papers swear centrism and impartiality. Antifascism isn't their flavour, not after the last war, and it's readership first, ethics second. The Ministry acknowledges the threat, but they, too, point fingers at empty air. They talk about extremism and radicals, about some distant, foreign threat. The rumour spreads that the enemy is from overseas, somewhere along the Eastern-European diaspora. Supremacist families donate to Free Speech advocating journalists under the table. 

Alastor hasn't spent his whole life preparing for war just to die in a ditch somewhere, but strangulation is slow and the enemy is faster. It feels poetic, almost, how slowly the trap closes around the Order's neck. On quiet days, he swears he can almost hear it snap shut. 

* * *

Sirius Black comes to visit him on the last day of term. Alastor is on a break, sitting on an outcropping of rock over the lake and sipping whiskey from his flask. He hears the boy coming from a mile away and gets the impression Black isn't trying to stay quiet. 

The boy sits a ways away from him, on the other side of the outcropping, legs dangling over the water. The beginnings of sunrise have started to paint the sky purple and orange and grey. 

"I know you watch me," Black starts eventually, after Alastor doesn't acknowledge him in the slightest bit. "When you think I don't notice. I do."

Alastor chews on his words for a while, swilling a mouthful of whiskey around in his mouth. "Suppose it doesn't need an explanation, does it, Black?"

"Guess it doesn't," Black agrees plainly. He sighs, pulling his legs up so he can hug his knees. "It took ages to get my friends to like me. Or, trust me, I guess. They're all from, uh, light families. Or muggle families, for Remus. They don't get it. Not really." 

"Can't say I do, either." Alastor squints off towards the forest. "Blood supremacy, that is." 

"Me neither," Black admits, sounding slightly insecure. "My family... they're..." 

"Rich?" Alastor offers. "Bloodthirsty?"

"Those things," Black admits. "Mean, too." 

For the first time, Alastor's perception of Black shifts ever so slightly. He thinks his next words over, churning them. They taste like spoiled milk and he spits them out. "Strict, are they?" 

Black laughs. It's far too old for him, rattling out of his chest like it's come from a man twice his age. "Something like that." 

"Did they take your Sorting well? For the first Gryffindor of their family in decades." 

"More like centuries, if you don't count the ones they disowned." Black takes a long breath and then releases it. "They're not happy with me." 

Again, there's something odd in that. Something strange and undetectable. For a moment, Alastor almost wants to ask. Then, the feeling fades. 

"Well." Alastor stands up, grunting, and brushes off his coat. "Have a fine summer, Black." 

Sirius doesn't stand up. He stays sitting, staring off into the bright orange sunrise, face scrunched up with the brightness of it. 

"Will you be back next year?" he asks faintly. The sharks are closing in, Alastor thinks, snaggletoothed and pale. 

"No," Alastor says shortly. "No, I don't think so." 

He looks out into the sunrise, too, flask cold against his ribs from the inside of his jacket.

"There's a war coming," he adds simply. "It needs soldiers." 

Then, Alastor turns and starts the trek up the long hill back to the castle, ready for his final day on assignment here. Black's eyes burn against his back all the way back to the front doors. 

* * *

For the year following, Alastor doesn’t hear anything about young Sirius Black. He is reappointed to the personal guard of the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement -- some libertarian pureblood with a whole lot of appeasement policy under his belt and not two balls to rub together, soft as a throw pillow and twice as stuffy -- and the year is dull and without event, because nobody is going after the Ministry’s middle-management and they know it. Alastor dislikes being used like a fancy prop, holding up an illusion for the benefit of a thoroughly disillusioned public, but if it’s what he needs to do to win this fight, it’s what he’ll do. 

If the Ministry has one thing, it’s influence. Staying on their good side, Albus warns, is crucial, because one of these days, they’re going to have to pick a battle. 

The Order continues to meet as often as they can afford to. Hogwarts becomes too risky, what with staff that can’t be trusted and increasingly subversive students eager to listen in. The entrances are being watched, too, by a more thoroughly vetted team of low-level Aurors. It’s not just for Hogwarts’ protection this time. It’s to make sure Albus Dumbledore isn’t planning anything radical. Like the man could go five minutes without plotting  _ something.  _

The Black family patriarch, Arcturus, dies of a blocked artery in December. His blood clots up in his hip and then he goes septic, dragged into St. Mungo’s hours after he starts to complain of pain. A day later he’s dead. It’s a dull, flat, muggleish way of dying. Alastor hopes, as he reads it in the paper the morning it happens, that the Blacks take the taste of loss and chew on it. 

Orion Black ascends to head of the Noble and Ancient House of Black. He walks into the Wizengamot meeting hall the following week like a conquering war general, not the attender of a funeral. He’s not as good an actor as his father, and everybody knows it. His supremacist politics and his dark history hang in the air of the Ministry like a cloud for days. 

Days after he ascends, a note appears on Alastor’s desk.  _ We’re watching you. _

_ Watch me all you like, _ Alastor thinks, and throws the damn thing into the fire in case it’s charmed to listen to him or track him or maybe kill him off in his sleep. He’s never seen a piece of paper kill somebody before, but he could always be the first. 

Yes, he decides, as he tells Dumbledore before the next Order meeting. Orion Black is not a subtle man. 

* * *

Spring surges in like an infection, hot and dry. Two Ministry-affiliated Aurors disappear on a job to the Highlands and never turn up again. Nobody finds their bodies. One of these days, Alastor promises himself, he’ll head up there and drag the loche his damn self. He never gets around to it, and nobody lingers long on their funerals, which feel harried and rushed. 

Alastor is pulled off his protection of the MLE director and shoved onto standard patrol of the coastline nearest Azkaban. It’s covert, near a muggle town, so the patrols are mostly taken alone. It’s always cold. Alastor thinks sadness and mourning and other such nonsense should be paid no mind, but it isn’t a fun job. 

“I know why you’re keeping me off the field,” he tells his head Auror one evening, after working hours are up and he’s handed in his report for the week. “Don’t think I don’t know this is political.” 

The head Auror glances up at him from his paperwork. “If you want to complain, take it to HR, not me, Moody.” 

“Not a complaint.” Alastor squares his jaw and stalks out of the door. “Just a warning,” he calls over his shoulder. 

They keep him assigned to Azkaban patrol. The dementors sway closer to the coast each day, drifting in with the tide. Their discontentment feels a lot like eagerness from this far away. They’re waiting for something.

Albus doesn’t give him much more to do either. Alastor knows why he’s doing it, too, and it’s slightly more gratifying to know that it’s because he’s valuable, not because he’s dangerous. The Order is young and doe-eyed and strangled by its own rope with every passing day. Their members drop like flies. Each week brings a new disappearance, a new body found. Albus is strategic with which young soldiers he allows to die for him. Alastor would complain, but he would do the same, if he was in that position. If it was his war to win.

Late that summer, Alastor runs into Sirius Black briefly, in an elevator down to the courts. 

Sirius has lost weight, and it makes the bones in his stately face jut out. He looks like a skull, like somebody has gouged the fat out of his cheeks. He’s in all black, chin raised, back straight. His skin is clear and unmarred. 

“Going to meet my dad before the Wizengamot session,” he mutters to Alastor, as he shuffles in beside him. 

Alastor nods, staring right ahead. “How’s Second Year been for you, Black?” 

“Just fine, sir.” Sirius Black clears his throat. “Just fine. Good, actually. I’ve got friends.” 

“They still trust you?” 

Black nods. He lowers his voice just a little. “I’ve never had friends before.” 

Alastor doesn’t know what to say to that. The doors swing wide at the floor of the Department of Mysteries, and Black steps out. He turns back to smile at Alastor. The elevator whisks him away into the darkness. 

* * *

‘73 comes in a rush of cold, the winter harsher than usual that year. Dementors break off in hordes from the lot guarding Azkaban, disappearing north. The Order theorises that Voldemort’s base must be in the north -- Finland, Norway, maybe. Somewhere tucked away and traditionalist. Somewhere he can build up his forces. 

The awareness of the big, ugly thing hovering over them all -- that a war is coming and there’s simply no stopping it -- sets in like a virus. Panic floods wizarding London, rules the narrow streets. Muggles die in hate crimes every other day. The world seems to get greyer. Alastor Moody is not a poetic person, but ‘73 feels a little like the beginning of the end, if such a thing exists, cold and biting and a strange, confusing blur of grief and discomfort. 

He rents out a flat in London, hoping to be closer to the enemy. Most of Britain’s supremacist families live in southern England, Oxfordshire and Hampshire and, some of them, the western stretch of London, where they can blend into muggle environments and fuel their pathological need to feel better than everybody else at all times. The move only succeeds in making Alastor feel closer to the belly of the beast, like he, too, is swimming closer and closer to the sharks. 

He’s assigned to part-time patrol of the Department of Mysteries, which is dull, monotonous work. He spends the rest of his time out hunting for Dumbledore, scouring Finland for dark wizards and escaped convicts, hunting smoke, apparating so often it feels like his body doesn’t exist in the physical realm anymore, not after its atoms have been shifting from space to space so much. That year, Alastor doesn’t sleep. 

“He’s after the giants,” Dumbledore informs them all, at a meeting in late March, when it’s still cold and snowing half the time, wet and windy the rest. “He’s already got recruiters searching the Alps. I’ve given them my ultimatum. All we can do is wait.” 

“I’m bloody tired of waiting,” snaps an ex-Auror at Alastor’s side. “The longer we wait, the further ahead of us he gets.” 

Sighing heavily, Albus nods. “I don’t think seeing this as a race is productive.” 

“Then what is it?” Alastor bites. 

Albus laughs softly. “Politics.” 

“People are dying,” Minerva McGonagall protests. 

Alastor scoffs. If nothing else, Albus has a way with words. “Politics,” he agrees. 

Orion Black does, indeed, watch him. Closely, Alastor might add. Uncomfortably closely. He hears from a friend of a friend of the boss that Black has been requesting copies of all of his reports, watching his notes, watching his allies. It makes Alastor feel suffocated, but not in a bad way. It fuels him like petrol to a blaze.  _ Get any closer and I’ll burn you, too. Just try it. _

The war itself continues to burn long and low, simmering over the summer of ‘73. After a string of muggleborn disappearances, Diagon Alley puts in place new security measures for two weeks in June and promptly realises that if it checks people for Dark memorabilia or Dark Marks, it’ll lose a chunk of its clientele, because of course the richest people are the most rotten, so the new security measures let up before the crest of July. 

Alastor’s new London apartment gets musty and stale-aired quickly; it doesn't last much longer than expected. The floorboards creak at night when nobody’s awake, and Alastor is a levelheaded man who doesn’t believe in ghosts -- not the type you can’t see, anyway -- but he does believe in danger, does believe that the people after him could make it look like an accident. The jaws of death yawn open at him from the dark every night and he snarls back into them. As July swelters, he moves into a new place, sleeps in a new bed. Doesn’t ever tell anybody his address. Knows it isn’t enough. 

He sleeps less and less. The maps on his kitchen table taunt him.  _ Twenty, thirty, forty of them out there with a grudge against you. They could take you down tonight if you weren’t careful.  _

All he knows is that he has to get to them first. And for that he has to be quicker than them. Play riskier than them. Bluff harder than them. 

In this game, it’s win or die. 

* * *

In August of that year, Alastor is called to a domestic disturbance call in a Wizarding abode in London by Albus Dumbledore of all people. 

_ It’s just a tip-off from a friend, _ Dumbledore’s patronus tells him mildly, from its place perched on his cluttered windowsill.  _ I thought you’d be the best for the job… be subtle, Alastor. This requires a rather gentle hand.  _

Alastor treks across the city like a summertime storm, thoroughly annoyed. Since when does Dumbledore want him for disturbance calls? That’s  _ barely _ Auror duty. Call a social worker or a mind healer or anything other than him. He’s got better, more important things to be doing than a house call. But Albus never explains anything to him, let alone what he’s thinking, so Alastor supposes he’s stuck running errands when he’s needed for now. 

When he reaches it, 12 Grimmauld Place looms from its row of townhouses like a rotten tooth. The fidelius charm is strong, and that’s Alastor’s first hint that this place belongs to a Dark family. 

Dry leaves and muggle litter skitters across the cobblestone street at Alastor’s feet as he crosses to the doorstep. He knocks hard, three short bursts. Standing like a gargoyle on the step, he keeps his shoulders back and his feet apart. 

It’s silent inside, strong silencing charms likely up preemptively. Nobody answers. 

Alastor sighs and resigns himself to Albus’ insanity. He knocks five more times. 

On the sixth time, somebody finally answers. The door creaks open, a tiny gap. Then, it opens wider, and Sirius Black’s confused face peers out at him. 

“Auror Moody?” Black asks, perplexed. 

Alastor keeps his cool. “I was ordered here on reports of a domestic disturbance.” 

“From who?” 

“Albus Dumbledore.” Alastor strains to remember his exact wording. “Said he’d gotten a tip-off and wanted to call in an Auror to make sure everything was alright.” 

Black’s pale face drains of even more colour. “Shit,” he whispers. “James.” 

“What was that?” 

Black looks back up. His face ripples and the very flimsy glamour over his right eye flickers and dies, and he’s got one hell of a shiner, huge and dark and swollen up like a plague. 

“How old are you again?” Alastor asks, as the two of them stare each other down. 

“Uh. Almost fourteen, now,” Black answers slowly. He reaches up to feel his face. “Shit. You’re going to take me in, huh?” 

Alastor does, in fact, take Black in. 

Not in cuffs, because even he isn’t so paranoid as to think that the twenty-pounds-underweight tween with a black eye is going to take a swing at him. But he keeps a firm hand on his rail-thin shoulder as they enter his flat regardless.

Neither of Black’s parents notices him leave. If this was standard protocol, Alastor would have had to call in backup to detain them. But this isn’t standard. 

Black sits down at his small kitchen table, staring out of the window. He’s very still and very quiet as Alastor makes him a mug of strong tea and clunks it down on the table in front of him. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Black starts almost immediately. He reaches out to cuff his bony fingers around the hot mug. “Honestly, there’s only a few weeks left until the end of the term. I’ll be fine until then. This is the first time he’s ever hit me, too, and parents hit their kids all the time when they lose their temper.” 

Alastor digests all that. Sighing, he waves a hand absently, wiping away the glamour around the kid’s neck, too, revealing a purplish curse scar wrapping around Black’s neck. 

Black stares down at the table in silence. 

“You should get better at glamours,” Alastor advises. “The trick is the wand position. If you want it really effective, you need to hold your wand tip right up against the skin and drag it in the direction of your dominant hand, strong grip on the handle. Like this.” He demonstrates. 

“Oh.” Black yanks his wand out and points it at his own throat. He practises the motion, murmuring the incantation under his breath. “Thanks, sir.” 

Alastor doesn’t respond. He leans back in his chair and observes the young Black. Black stares right back at him. 

“I’ll know if you’re lying,” Alastor starts eventually, “So don’t try it. How bad is it?” 

Black flushes dark. He swallows. “Sir…” 

“We need to know our enemy, don’t we?” 

Something changes on Black’s face. He nods, eyes flitting around the room, and then says, “It’s been like this for as long as I can remember. They don’t beat me or anything. It’s not really a punishment. More like… frustration. They know I’m a lost cause. It’s caused a lot of… stress. In the house.” 

“I see.” 

“I think they’re still hoping I’ll fall in line with them.” 

“And are you planning on it? As the heir, it must be…” Alastor narrows his eyes. “Valuable for them to have your allegiance.” 

Openly, Black scowls. “They’re dirty, arrogant fascists. I’ve got nothing in common with any of them and I never will. Not their superiority complex, not their stupid, backwards views, nothing.” 

“I see.” Alastor scowls right back. “You’re thirteen now?” 

Black nods. “Finished my third year a while ago. I go back to Hogwarts soon. Auror-” 

Alastor holds up a hand. “I’m not a bloody social worker, I’m not going to go tell your teachers so they can throw a pity party for you.” 

Black pauses. Hope swells across his face like a swarm of locusts. “Oh,” he says.

“Not unless you’re so desperate to get out of there, which you aren’t.” Alastor laughs drily. “I can see the look on your face.” 

“So you won’t tell anyone?” 

“No.” Alastor leans in conspiratorially. “No, I think it’s a lot more valuable to have a spy on the inside.”

* * *

_ 20/08/73 _

_ Auror Moody, _

_ I hope my owl finds you okay. I know you take a lot of pains to hide yourself. Anyway. _

_ He’s currently working with a few other men of the Wizengamot to plan a new bill. The Blood Purity Act, his notes call it. I can’t find a lot of details on it, but as far as I can tell, it’s a joint act. The first part is to legally define terms like ‘pureblood’ and ‘muggleborn’. The second part is to allow their being taken into account for job applications and the like.  _

_ It’s gross shit, awful shit. I couldn’t stay in his office for long, because I’m pretty sure he’s got millions of surveillance spells up all over the place, but from what I saw, they’re currently establishing which support they’ve got on the courtroom floor, gathering a list of names to vote this stuff in. I couldn’t tell you their plans for launching the bill, or when they’re going to do it. I’m going to try to keep looking. It’ll be harder to watch when I’m back at Hogwarts, but I can try to keep in contact with my father -- if he thinks I’m interested, he’ll tell me more -- and I can go home for Christmas, too.  _

_ Can you send bruise salve? The expensive one in the golden pots they sell at the potions place. The cheap stuff doesn’t work and it makes me break out in hives. I don’t want people back at school to wonder, and I’m willing to extort you.  _

_ Write back.  _

_ Sirius Orion Black _

_ 22/08/73 _

_ The information on this bill is well appreciated. I’ve got eyes in the Ministry keeping a watch for rumours. Can you get me any of those names?  _

_ Going home for Christmas sounds ideal. Be subtle and be vigilant. The moment he catches on, the pipeline will shut off. Watch your back.  _

_ Bruise salve attached. Don’t say I never did anything to help you.  _

_ 23/08/73 _

_ Auror Moody,  _

_ I’ve attached a list of names. Let’s hope he doesn’t notice it’s missing, right? And I think I’ve got a little more information. When I asked him about it at breakfast, he got angry and didn’t seem to believe I was being genuine, but that’s fine -- the point is, he did let slip that they won’t be passing the bill until after the school year has started, so they can stall Dumbledore from interfering.  _

_ Is Dumbledore involved in politics? I’ve never seen him at the Wizengamot meetings.  _

_ I am watching my back, sir. My back greatly appreciates the medication. My back is also far less appreciative of my mother cutting me off from family funds, because my back does not like being broke.  _

_ Have you seen that new type of Honeydukes chocolate? The one with the popping candy? Looks good, right?  _

_ Write back!  _

_ Sirius Orion Black _

_ 27/08/73 _

_ Extortion is illegal, Black. Don’t push it.  _

_ The names are good. There’s not enough of them, though, so it’s safe to assume your father’s going to be busy recruiting to his cause. The power balance of the Wizengamot is fragile. One of these days, it’s going to tip and fall.  _

_ If you’re in contact with your pureblood friend and able to send letters to his family home, let his parents know that they should be careful. Anonymously, if you can. They hold a prominent seat of power and I’d hate to see them knocked off it.  _

_ One bar attached. One.  _

_ 27/08/73 _

_ Auror Moody, _

_ I’ll be sure to share it with my housemates when I get back to school. Only a few days away now! The Potters should receive my letter soon -- my owl’s busy, so this might be late to arrive with you. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the warning, and they shouldn’t know it’s from me, not if I send it by night. They’re great, Effie and Monty. Really great people. I hope they survive this war. _

_ The Dark Lord’s on the move again, isn’t he? I heard my mother talking to her sister about it the other day. He’s recruiting from the underground now. Some town just north of Liverpool, a Dark hotspot. Lots of country clubs and old money up there, sir. A base, maybe. Do you know about that place? Are the Aurors watching it?  _

_ Thanks for the chocolate. Yum. Good to know I’ve got friends on the outside. Does Dumbledore still think I’m in need of rescuing? Tell him I’m fine.  _

_ Constant Vigilance!  _

_ Sirius Orion Black _

* * *

“And you’re sure this source is good,” Albus confirms, staring his x-ray stare across the table at Alastor. “You’re sure.” 

Alastor nods, leaning back in his seat. The rest of the Order watch with bated breath. “Yes. They’re on the inside -- deep on the inside -- so I can’t name names, you know that. But they’re good.” 

Albus nods faintly. He scratches something down on his notes, then looks up. “Kingsley.” 

Shacklebolt, sitting opposite Alastor, sits upright. “Yes, sir?” 

“Arrange a task force to start scouting out that area. This is a fantastic lead, truly.” Albus stands abruptly. “This meeting is over, I’m afraid. Alastor, if you would accompany me to my office, please.” 

The Order disperses, murmuring amongst themselves. Kingsley and Alastor exchange glances before Kingsley steps into the fireplace and disappears in a shower of green sparks. 

Alastor follows Albus up to the office on the second floor of their safehouse. It’s nothing compared to the grandeur of his headmasters’ office back at the school, thick with dust and pasted with maps and notes and bulletin boards on every available surface. 

Albus closes the door behind the both of them. He heaves a great sigh and turns to Alastor. 

“I simply wanted to make sure,” he says delicately, “That young Sirius Black truly is alright. After Mr. Potter contacted me, I couldn’t help but worry. The boy sounded truly distraught.” 

Again, that sharp, penetrative stare. Alastor clears his throat. “He’s safe. Safe as he’s going to be, with who his family are.” 

“I see.” Albus glances towards the window. It’s the end of August, the night before students begin to return to Hogwarts, but it’s harsh and raining, a summer hailstorm on its way. “Young friendship is curious indeed.” A pause. “He’s not in any danger, Alastor?” 

Alastor looks towards the window, too. “No, Albus. No, he’s not.” 

* * *

Black keeps writing to him all through his fourth year. He’s unversed in the language of war and always says too much, reveals too much, speaks too soon and voices his opinions thoughtlessly. He doesn’t know how to mask his words, but he’s quick, very quick, quick enough that Alastor would be relieved he’s on their side if he wasn’t always doubtful, always watching, always ready for a betrayal. He’s spent forty years waiting for a knife in the back. He can spend forty more. 

Fleamont Potter isn’t assassinated, nor does he come down with some strange illness that forces him to take leave. The Blood Purity Act is proposed before the court and barely defeated, failing by a single vote on the floor. Orion Black has never looked so murderous, and his sharp, fierce face covers the front page of the Prophet a day later, accompanied by a fellow politician’s testimonial of the value of such a bill, what it could provide for the preservation of magical heritage. 

_ We did something good! _ Sirius Black writes Alastor the following day, along with that newspaper clipping with Orion’s photo charmed to bear a curly moustache and googly eyes.  _ I’m going to keep digging when I go home for Easter. I think he’s starting to believe me when I tell him it intrigues me. I can get you more information. _

Their first raid in Liverpool goes shiningly well. Alastor arrests three wanted criminals and two suspects, and he shatters the front wall of one of their tall, white country houses, too, which does little to benefit the cause but does plenty to benefit his peace of mind. The papers don’t report on it, but diligently, he reports it back to Black, who seems thrilled by the news. Thrilled at the sight of his own destruction. 

He really is a rotten pureblood. 

Easter doesn’t yield much more valuable information. Black asks for more bruise salve, brags about how good he’s gotten at using glamours. Albus Dumbledore stops asking questions about where Alastor gets his information. The Order swells in numbers. Eventually, summer comes. 

* * *

_ 29/07/74 _

_ Auror Moody,  _

_ I GOT IT! I GOT IT! I bloody well got it.  _

_ My father took the Dark Mark. I don’t know when, but I saw it on his wrist when we were fighting the other day, big and dark. He wouldn’t tell me how he got it, or why, but I can only assume he really is one of them now. Bastard.  _

_ He let slip that more of my family has them now, too. Bellatrix Black, my cousin, and Lucius Malfoy (he’s still in Hogwarts, but he turns seventeen soon, that’s good enough, right? I’m almost fifteen and I would know better). He wants to Mark me, too, but he can’t until I turn sixteen, and I’ll be long gone before that, because sod that, sod them and their whole stupid blood war.  _

_ I have more names, more people I think he’s branded. There’s more of them than we can imagine.  _

_ But this is good, right? You can get them arrested if you find them with the Mark, right?  _

_ Write back!! And send a potion for inflammation. My mother used this horrendous Dark spell on me the other day that made my whole bloody face swell, and I look ugly as sin.  _

_ Sirius Orion Black  _

_ 03/08/74 _

_ Apologies for the late reply, boy.  _

_ That’s good to know. Solid evidence, if he’s ever convicted of a real crime. Unfortunately, having a tattoo is not a criminal offense, not with blood purists’ hold on the department of MLE. But it helps us regardless. If your father is Marked, it means he’ll be attending meetings with Voldemort. It means you can keep watching him. This is good, very good. Well done, soldier.  _

_ Keep an eye on your father. The next time he leaves for a meeting, especially if it seems prompted by his Mark, owl me IMMEDIATELY. Needle him for information. Gently does it. You’re smart, Black, you know how to do this.  _

_ I’ve attached a potion. You’re an expensive liability. Next time, try to dodge.  _

_ 04/08/74  _

_ Auror Moody,  _

_ Feels like I’m gonna be watching for the rest of my sodding life. Thanks for the potion, by the way. Real top shelf stuff. Now my face looks less like spoiled porridge and more like memory foam.  _

_ I’ll owl you as soon as I see anything. You didn’t respond to one thing I said last time, though. I said I’ll be leaving before I turn sixteen, remember?  _

_ Perspective on that? Surely it isn’t benefiting the war effort much. Ha.  _

_ I don’t like war, Moody. And I don’t like this.  _

_ Write back.  _

_ Sirius Orion Black _

_ (P.S. I got into a fight with my mother when I tried to send this. Bandages? The charmed ones that smell like peonies. Soon, please.)  _

_ 04/08/74 _

_ Bandages attached. The normal ones, you daft fool, I’m not made of money.  _

_ When you want to leave, it’s entirely your pejorative, Black. It’ll be a blow to lose a spy so close to the action, but I can’t stop you. I’ll admit I was eager to keep a hold on you until the war ends, which might be quite some time, but… if it’s too much to handle, I can’t do anything to change your mind.  _

_ Until then, keep being useful. There are rumours our man is working on peddling another bill. The Magical Heritage Act. Thoughts? _

_ 09/08/74 _

_ He just left I don’t have much time to write something long. Don’t know where he floo’d to. Something Manor. He might have said Rosier I can’t be sure.  _

_ Magical Heritage Act is on its way. Nasty stuff! Thanks for the bandages _

_ SOB  _

* * *

That night, the Order congregates to break up Voldemort’s little tea party at Rosier Manor. It’s the first time Alastor sees Tom Riddle in person, and it’s only for a split-second before the coward apparates away, right though the Order’s wards and out of sight. 

It tells Alastor one thing, he knows, as he slaps the cuffs on the Malfoy patriarch. The Dark Lord knows they’ve got a spy on the inside. And in a matter of time, they’ll follow the information back along its trail to Sirius Black.

He almost thinks he should warn the boy. Black seems brave enough. But if he gets cold feet, Alastor is back in the dark again, and if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s being in the dark. 

The following morning, the Prophet runs a headline about vigilantes and radicals and the arrest of the upstanding head of the Malfoy house on no evidence.  _ Ha, _ Black writes sourly in his next letter.  _ They’ve got fingers in tons of pies, huh? Never thought the Prophet was so utilitarian with their money.  _

_ You obviously don’t read the news much, _ Alastor writes back.  _ Stay vigilant. They’re getting stronger. _

Orion Black keeps watching him. Alastor pretends not to care.

September comes. Black goes back to Hogwarts for his fifth year, turning fifteen that November. The snare of time is closing in. One of these days, it’ll chop them all to bits. 

Life working for the Ministry gets worse. Every day brings new notes to Alastor’s desk, some threatening, others supportive, all anonymous. He’s radioactive right now and the whole department knows it, because they’d all rather take a holiday than be stationed on patrol with him. The Order still works in the shadows, but much like the death eaters, it has become something of a known secret among magical law enforcement, and if anybody is known to be Dumbledore’s man, it’s Alastor. 

Alastor comes into work one morning after a late night with the Order protecting a muggle spiritual shop in the midlands from a loose brigade of blood supremacist twenty-somethings. He finds his desk rifled through and papers strewn everywhere, a splatter of blood on the wooden desk from a repulsion charm. Outside, thick November snow tumbles down against the window. When he takes it up with his coordinator, they brush off the problem. 

The Order gets more and more paranoid. More of them disappear by the week. Dumbledore can’t recruit fast enough to fill their emptying ranks. The halls of Hogwarts reside under a rule of violence, hate crimes in the corridors and complaints of prejudiced marking every other day lobbied against muggleborn professors by pureblooded families. 

_ I’m going home for Christmas, _ Sirius tells Alastor that December.  _ I’m close to a breakthrough, I can just feel it.  _

* * *

On the twenty-third of December, Albus calls a meeting. 

“You’d swear Albus thinks we’ve all got time to spare,” Fabian Prewett is complaining when Alastor floos in. He and his twin are scowling side-by-side, feet up on the table of this season’s Order safehouse. Gideon is sharpening a graphite pencil with a knife. 

Across the table, Sturgis Podmore shrugs, elbows hiked up onto the wood. “Suppose it’s gotta be important, right? It’s been a while since we got a call on such short notice.”

“If by a while you mean three bloody weeks, I’d agree with you.” Gideon raises his voice. “Oi, Alastor, looking sharp as ever.” 

Alastor whaps him over the back of the head as he passes on the way to his seat. “And yourself, Prewett.” Behind him, Podmore makes a face. “I saw that.” 

“Right, sorry.” Podmore does it again. Fabian exchanges a grin with him. Everybody seems in far too high spirits for the occasion. 

When Albus’ patronus broke through one of Alastor’s windows not half an hour ago, calling for a meeting with all available order members, Alastor hadn’t hesitated to drop what he was doing and head to the safehouse. He’s glad, he notes as he sits down, to see that the others have done the same. 

“Good to see you, Moody,” Rubeus Hagrid comments, from his own place in a towering armchair near the fire, squeezed onto the corner of the dining table. “Ye’r taking care of yourself just alright?” 

“Worry about yourself, you great lump,” Alastor mutters, a few shades off venomous. 

Hagrid smiles down at the table. That dolt really is too soft. 

Minerva McGonagall is the next to enter, stepping serenely through the fireplace and dusting off the hem of her robes as she clears the green flames. “Is Albus not here yet?” she asks distractedly, taking a seat. “He really could have chosen a better time -- I’m practically laid out with marking...” 

She trails off, glancing around and taking in the room. Wind lashes against the dark windows, and the fire crackles loud and hot in the grate. Alastor takes a moment to take it in, too. Some days, he really does wish he could see out the back of his head. He’d swear he’s developing neck problems from all the looking over his shoulder. That’s what war will do to you. 

Minerva clears her throat. “Mr. Prewett, I hope you’ll be cleaning those pencil shavings up yourself.” 

“What?” Gideon looks up. “Oh, right.” He swipes his wand absently at the shavings and they flutter across the floor into the fire. “Ta-da.” 

“Thank you.” Minerva folds her hands in her lap, a severe look on her face. It being the holidays, Alastor imagines she’s in need of somebody to tell off. 

Elphias Doge and Emmeline Vance arrive shortly, nattering among themselves, followed closely by Frank and Alice Longbottom, the newlyweds of the Order, only graduated since last year. Hooting with delight, Frank sits near the Prewett twins and immediately starts catching up, Alice hanging off his arm. The four of them will have attended Hogwarts at around the same time, Alastor contemplates, before smacking his wand against the side of the table to get their attention. 

“Heads up,” he commands. “This isn’t a holiday, Longbottom.”

Frank beams at him. “Good to see you still in one piece, Moody!”

“Very funny.” Moody gestures between his mangled nose and Frank’s long, weak-chinned face. “I’ll take a piece of yours in a minute.” 

The Fabians and the Longbottoms laugh merrily, going back to their mindless chatter. They’re joined quickly by Benji Fenwick, sweeping into the room through the fire with a hearty roar of greeting, Caradoc Dearborn, pale and smiling, and Dedalus Diggle, who perches near Hagrid. 

The group of ex-students in their midst keep up their lively exuberance. Alastor forgets how young they all are sometimes. It’s disturbing to see them here, acting like children with war looming on the horizon. More disturbing still to know that they’re acting like children because that’s what they are. 

The flames roar one last time, green sparks shooting across the stone floor. Albus Dumbledore, man of the hour, steps out, and the room goes quiet. 

Albus looks exceptionally tired. He greets them all with a sedate smile and crosses around the table to sit at its head. 

“Hello, all,” he greets simply. “Is this all we’re expecting?” He appears to do a quick head-count, then nods appreciatively. “Yes, I believe this is all of us.” 

“Good to see you again, Professor,” Frank Longbottom calls. 

Albus waves his hand faintly, finding a chair and sitting heavily. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Longbottom, I’m glad to see you safe and healthy.” 

“And you too, sir.”

“This is all very touching,” Alastor growls. “But are we here for something other than a mild chat over tea, Albus?” 

“Right.” Albus’ smile falls. He sighs like he’s got the world weighing on his shoulders. “Well, I’m afraid it isn’t for good news.” 

“We figured it wasn’t,” Fabian Prewett says grimly. “What’s happened, sir?” 

“You’re all familiar with young Mr. Black, I presume?” 

A cold feeling blossoms along the back of Alastor’s neck. 

“Sirius Black?” Alice Longbottom asks, chewing on her lip. “Yes, we were… we were in the same house. He’s just gone into his fourth year, hasn’t he? Or is it fifth?” 

“A Gryffindor Black?” Gideon Prewett snorts. “Never thought we’d see the day. Glad that was after our time.” 

“He’s a decent kid,” Frank Longbottom says fairly. “Bit of a showoff, but aren’t we all, at that age.”

“Is Mr. Potter alright?” Minerva asks, already seeming to be catching on. “Those two are close, very close. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t want to presume…” 

“Young Sirius Black is not the aggressor here, don’t worry,” Albus says, though he does smile faintly, as if a little amused. “No, it’s a little less simple. Forgive me -- old age has muddled this fine brain. Let me start at the beginning.” 

Alastor snorts. Nothing about Albus Dumbledore is the slightest bit muddled. He doesn’t say anything, though, just listens. 

“A few hours ago, just after sunset,” Albus starts, “Young Mr. Potter -- that’s James Potter, son of Fleamont and Euphemia -- received a rather panicked communication from his friend, Mr. Black. The two of them really are  _ very _ bright students, for it appears they’ve charmed two matching mirrors to communicate with one another and taken one each home for the holidays.” Albus smiles mildly at Minerva. “When asked, James told me it had been Sirius’ idea for keeping in touch when in separate detentions.” 

“That sounds like Mr. Black,” Minerva sighs, looking harried.

“Indeed.” Albus clears his throat, folding his fingers on the table. “According to James, Mr. Black called from the Blacks’ family home in London, and told James-” Albus’ face creases slightly, grim like the commander of an overwhelmed fleet. “Told James, if I remember correctly, that ‘if he doesn’t make it, he’s sorry, but he thinks they’re going to kill him’.” 

Silence falls over the long table. The Longbottoms exchange dire glances. Minerva’s face flashes between about ten different emotions, all equally strong, before landing somewhere between confusion and outrage. In the corner, Hagrid already looks like he’s grieving. 

“Shit,” Podmore murmurs. 

“That was reminiscent of my reaction, too,” Albus agrees faintly. He shakes his head. “Alarmed, James… well, he’s fifteen, and while not known for his lack of intellect, he is known for his recklessness, so he marched out of his parents’ house, called on the Knight Bus and rode to London.” 

“A bloody fool,” Alastor mutters. “Doesn’t he know this is war?” 

Albus sighs heavily. “You know, Alastor, I don’t think he does.” 

Scowling, Alastor shuts his mouth. 

“Luckily for himself, I suppose, James was unable to locate Mr. Black’s house, and by the time he made it back home, he was in quite a state. His parents, worried sick of course, contacted me, and I spoke to James, who seems… well.” Albus looks up across the room, from one face to the next, scanning them all with his piercing stare. “He seemed quite adamant that Mr. Black was in mortal danger.” 

“You mean to say Black hasn’t been found?” Minerva asks, half-standing. 

“He could be dead already,” Hagrid bemoans. “Oh, that poor runt. Never did check in on him enough-”

“All hope is not lost,” Albus supplies. “I’ve just arrived from the Black residence myself, in fact. It appears young Sirius isn’t home.” 

“Oh?” Alastor asks. 

“From what I could deduce, an hour or so ago, Mr. Black had a… rather explosive argument with his family and left.” Albus is frowning. “The Ministry has yet to report any use of underage magic, so the trace is, unfortunately, off the table. And Black has not been seen since.” 

Fabian Preweet furrows his brow. “So we’ve got a runaway on our hands?” 

Albus and Alastor exchange glances. Alastor decides to fill in. “His father’s a death eater. Knowing Black, he left because they tried to mark him, too.”  _ Waiting until sixteen,  _ Alastor’s ass. He shouldn’t have believed it when he heard it.

“You know Black?” Gideon asks. 

“We’ve met,” Alastor says simply, leaving it at that. 

“We should organise a search party,” Minerva is already saying, standing up and heading for the fireplace. “I’ll alert the other professors.” 

“Please do,” Albus says grimly. “And the rest of us should begin searching, too. It’s unlikely Black is out of London yet. Somebody check the Knight Bus-- and Frank, Alice, I’d appreciate eyes on Diagon Alley-” 

As the room shifts into action, Albus and Alastor exchange another long look. Then, Alastor grabs a handful of floo powder and steps into the fireplace. 

He knows  _ exactly _ where the kid will go. 

* * *

It’s past midnight when the knock comes. 

Perched on his doorstep, Sirius Black is bedraggled and pathetic. He looks all his fifteen years, rainwater dripping off his sharp nose, dark hair sticking to his forehead, a thick, white curse scar sticking out of the neckline of his muggle sweater. 

“Took ages for me to remember the right apartment,” Black mutters indistinctly. “Hey, Moody.” 

“That’s Auror Moody to you,” Alastor says, without much heat to it. “What are you waiting for, boy? Come in, there’s no use in talking on doorsteps-” 

Black shuffles inside. Under the flickering overhead light, he’s sallow and translucent, like you could walk right through him if you wanted to. 

“You expected me?” he asks. Then, “Oh. James.” 

“You’ve got loyal friends.” Alastor observes as he pushes Black into a chair at the kitchen table. “He’s got the whole Order scouring London for you.” 

“Oh.” 

Alastor casts a wordless patronus to find Dumbledore and call off the hunt. “ _ Oh _ indeed.” 

“I’m sorry for the hassle.” 

Alastor scoffs. “No, you’re not. If I know anything about your type, Black, it’s that you love hassle. Stay there, I’ll get my first aid kit.” 

Black obeys, staring down at the wooden tabletop so hard it might burn his eyes. Hands folded in his lap, he’s shaking like a very damp, very grimy leaf. 

Alastor returns with his first aid kit and makes a mug of tea. He doesn’t hurry anything, doesn’t make any sudden movements. He’s had enough soldiers come off the field with that same look on their face to know that he can’t push too hard. 

Black accepts the tea with a small noise of appreciation. Alastor sits opposite him. 

“Hoodie off,” he pushes. “Come on, boy.” 

“I’m fine-” 

“If you bleed out, it’ll hardly aid the war effort now, will it?” 

“It’s not that bad,” Black mutters. Still, he pulls his sweatshirt up over his head and deposits it in the chair beside him. Under it, he’s wearing a white t-shirt, which is already halfway soaked red. There’s a long, thin gash up the middle of his chest that curls around his neck like a noose. The curse scar is from something Dark. The cruciatus, perhaps, or maybe something more obscure. 

His left forearm. Alastor zeros in on it. There’s a long, dark stretch of skin, mottled and patchy, but if it was meant to be the Dark Mark, the caster didn’t manage to finish the incantation. 

Black, seeming to notice Alastor staring, flexes his bruised knuckles. “I tried to punch him. The Dark Lord.” 

“Ha.” One of these days, this kid is going to kill him. 

“It didn’t work.” 

“Obviously it didn’t work, you fool.” 

Black cracks a small, crooked grin. “Made him angry. Real angry.” 

“And he definitely didn’t finish the curse?” 

He shakes his head, gestures to his neck. “Got distracted using the cruciatus curse on me, sir.” 

“Well,” Alastor says, “Poor bloody you, aye, boy?” 

“Aye,” Black croaks. The smile falls. 

Methodically, Alastor gets to work patching up the long gash. There’s another down Black’s ribcage, less deep but far bigger, a long, senseless twirl of torn flesh like a child’s drawing. 

“M’back’s fine,” Black puts in, after ten minutes of silence. He sips his tea and grimaces. “There’s not enough milk in this.” 

“Oh, I apologise, princess, for not accommodating your royal bloody tastes.” Alastor finishes tying a knot in the bandage around Black’s chest. “Any injuries anywhere else?” 

Black seems to stop to take stock of himself. “The Mark hurts.” 

“Nothing to be done about that.” 

“It-- he won’t be able to call me, right? Or control me.” 

Alastor sighs. “You’d have to ask Dumbledore, but I’d assume not, no.” 

“Oh. Good.” Black pauses. “I think I broke my ankle.” 

“Right. Foot up on the table, then.” 

The two of them work through Black’s injuries like a map, like an investigation into a cold case. Apart from the broken ankle, there’s a thick, shallow gash along the back of his neck, shooting up through his dark hair, which Alastor agrees not to stitch up after Black pleads to save his hair. There’s a dazed look to Black’s face, too, like he’s been under more than one unforgivable curse this evening.

“I saw him, sir,” Black says, on his second mug of tea. He tucks his bandaged foot back under the table. He’s in his socks and a pair of conjured sweatpants now. “Voldemort.”

“I know, lad.”

“He’s taller in person.” 

Alastor nods grimly, digging around in his med kit for a bottle of dreamless sleep. “I know. I know.” 

“Is James okay? I don’t want him to worry.” 

“Sleep. You can go see him tomorrow.” 

Black keeps staring at the table. He nods faintly. “Okay,” he whispers. 

Alastor pushes the potion on him and shuffles him over to the sofa, which is years old and dusty but plenty comfortable. Black collapses into the pillows, burrowing back between the seat cushions like he wants them to swallow him. 

“Sleep,” Alastor commands. He knows he won’t be. 

Black nods. He cracks his dull eyes open. “It helped, right?” 

Hand on the light switch, Alastor looks over. “What?” 

“My information. It was useful, wasn’t it?” 

Alastor doesn’t know how to reply. If it was Dumbledore, he’d say,  _ we need more if it’s going to win us this war. _ If he was talking to a subordinate, he’d say,  _ next time, you need to be more careful, be more tactful. You haven’t given us enough.  _

But Sirius Black is fifteen, and he’s spent his life suffering for the benefit of adults, so Alastor just says, “It was.” 

* * *

James Potter tumbles through the fireplace at 9AM sharp. He ignores Alastor, sailing to his knees beside the couch, a jittery ball of worry.

“He’s still asleep,” Alastor says, leaning against the doorframe. “Did Dumbledore invite you?” 

Potter nods absently. He reaches out to brush a piece of hair out of Black’s face, ghosting a hand over him. “Yeah. Yeah, he said Sirius was here, and he said I could only come in the morning so I waited…” He trails off. “You’re the one who found him?” 

Alastor almost tells the truth, but then he considers that for all Black’s faults, he’s probably kept his little under-the-table spy gig a secret from his friends. It’s not Alastor’s to tell. “Yes.” 

“Thank you.” Potter pulls himself to his feet. “Was he hurt?” 

“A few nicks.” Alastor pulls his coat on. “If you want tea, the kettle’s in the other room. I’m to report back to Dumbledore, I suppose?” 

“He wants to talk to you,” Potter nods, still staring at him. “Thank you. For taking care of him.” 

Alastor waves him off. “Don’t go exploring my apartment. I’ll be back.” 

“Right.” James shuffles onto the floor, sitting cross-legged against the couch like a watchdog. “Right. Thanks. Thank you. If you hadn’t… thanks.” 

He’s staring at the black smear across Sirius’ forearm. Alastor allows himself to stare, too. 

“They really tried…?” James asks, aghast. 

Alastor grabs a handful of floo powder. “Appreciate your family, boy,” he advises. Then, he steps into the flame. 

* * *

“Quite the ruthless decision, to employ young Mr. Black,” Albus offers. 

Alastor ignores his gaze, staring into the fireplace. “That’s how times like this go, and you know it.”

“At the expense of the boy’s safety?” 

“Don’t act like you didn’t know.” 

Albus falls silent at that. 

* * *

_ 03/01/75 _

_ Auror Moody,  _

_ I never really did get to thank you, did I? What with the Potters swooping in to get me the next day and everything.  _

_ I told James about what I did. The spying and everything. He thinks I should be angry with you. I guess I’ve got the right to be. I’m not, though. I don’t think I’m able to be.  _

_ So thank you. For helping me. I don’t remember much of that night, but getting away from Voldemort was pretty badass, huh? I think I would have fainted in an alleyway or something if it wasn’t for you, though, so half the battle was yours.  _

_ They tried to mark me because they knew about the letters, because they knew I was a spy. I guess you figured that one out. I thought I should say it, in case I can be of any more use: I want to keep fighting in this war. I know I’m too young. All the adults I speak to now keep telling me.  _

_ But you’re different. You know sacrifices have to be made, right? You know about war, about what has to be done to win it. And I’m not useful unless I can give things up for this. I can’t help without a little pain.  _

_ What I’m saying is: I’m willing to go back to the Blacks, if you want me to. If it’ll help. I hate the Dark Lord, hate him with all my bloody soul. And I’m old enough and smart enough and brave enough to keep going. To keep providing information.  _

_ Write back. And happy (belated) holidays.  _

_ Sirius Orion (?) Black (?)  _

_ 04/01/75 _

_ Sirius, _

_ For now, boy, I think you’ve served your sentence. When you’re out of school, owl me and we can talk war. _

_ Watch your back.  _

_ \- Alastor Moody. _

* * *

He doesn't receive another letter again. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! <3 comments mean the entire world to me. and if you liked this, you'll love my other ongoing fic, a multi-chapter take on an alternate universe where the potters are a Dark family too, and what it means for the plot. it's called 'like the orange tree' and it's pretty gay ngl
> 
> love you thanks bye!


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